Authors: Sarah Hegger
Where Helena was concerned, Guy was not a wise knight.
She wasn’t at Dartmoore. Ranulf had been too happy to allow his castle to be searched. The emissaries would return on the morrow or mayhap even the next day and they would report nothing amiss there. The whoreson had secured her elsewhere.
Clever, blasted Ranulf. He had played Guy and the king like a pair of lyres.
Guy had lost his mind in the hall. Sweet
Jesu
, the pain of failure was worse than the combined hurt of all his bodily wounds. He had failed her. His wife was in danger and he was chained to the wall like a common villein. Despite all his lofty principles and his smug certainty he wasn’t his father’s son, in the end he had behaved exactly like his sire. He had lashed out like a wounded beast and, in so doing, condemned his lady to die.
“Well, that was pure idiocy.”
Guy’s head jerked up at the snide comment. Bridget stood on the other side of the bars with a water basin and some cloths in her hand. She turned to address one of his guards. “Open this door, you oaf. Let me see to his wounds, so the king will have a good body to swing.”
The men grumbled, but none were stupid enough to ignore Bridget. One of them got up to let her in. He locked the bars behind her.
“Feeling sorry for yourself?” Bridget set the basin on the floor. An astringent smell rose from the container as she dipped a cloth into the water.
“Aye.”
“You daft sot.” Bridget slapped the cloth on his cheek. It stung like the very devil. Before he could jerk his head back, she had him by the ear to keep him in place. “Your scouts are back,” she whispered.
Guy went very still.
“Just within the forest there were some tracks, a man and a woman.” Her tone dropped, so low that the men outside could hear nothing.
Guy nodded.
“Stop squirming,” she chastised him loudly. “Any man that takes eight to bring him down can put up with a little witch hazel.” She dabbed at the corner of his mouth and he flinched again. A ministering angel she was not, but Guy’s entire being focused on what she might say next.
“They went south, the man leading and the woman trailing. There was no sign of a struggle.”
That was one thing at least. Not much, but enough for him to breathe again.
“They were joined by another woman,” Bridget continued. “This one was heavier, not walking comfortably.”
“Rosalind,” Guy guessed.
“No names,” she reprimanded. Then, louder, “Oh, do not be such a prude!” She ripped his tunic with one deft yank just as a few of the men looked up, then nudged each other knowingly. “I’ve seen more naked men than I care to.”
She hissed at the sight of dark bruising across his ribs. “They did not spare you, did they?”
Blue and red marks mottled his chest, turning ripe purple in a large patch over his left side. He vaguely remembered a boot to that region.
“This will hurt. You might want to yell,” she advised softly. As the cloth hit his ribs and Guy let loose with a shout of pain, Bridget muttered, “Willie came. He says Rosalind has been missing for the same amount of time as Helena.”
Water slopped over his chausses and onto the earthen floor as Bridget crawled around to his other side, dragging her basin across the floor. “Ewayne followed the tracks for a while. They were making no attempt to hide their traces. They stopped in a clearing.” She paused and roughly doused his stomach with more water.
Guy cursed aloud even as he nodded in understanding.
“There were men waiting for them. At least three. There were signs of . . .” Her words trailed off to nothing.
“Signs of what?” Guy had to make an effort to keep his voice low and controlled.
“Blood. Some attempt had been made to cover it up, but there was a lot of blood.”
The edges of his vision darkened. He feared there was more.
“The men left, but they had a spare horse with them,” she whispered. “It was shod as a pack animal, not a destrier, and it was heavily loaded.”
“Heavy enough for a body?”
“Or two people. I sent a man after the horses, but I wanted to discover the source of the blood. It was Colin.”
Relief washed over Guy, dizzying and sweet in its fervour. “Where is he?”
“Dead.” Bridget wrung out her cloth and went to work on his broken knuckle. The manacles on his wrists clanked loudly over the floor. “He took a stomach wound from a sword. It was not an easy death. There was no sign of a fight. He was ambushed or taken by surprise.”
“Or mayhap he already knew what was about to occur.” Guy had to close his eyes and fight for calm. The rage threatened, just on the other end of madness. That little bastard had betrayed her. It was a pity Colin was already dead, for Guy would have taken great delight in exacting penance from the whoreson.
“Aye.” Bridget gathered up her things.
“The men and horses?” Guy stopped her as she creaked to her feet. “Which way did they lead?”
“Southeast.” Bridget’s gaze met Guy’s.
It made sense. Ranulf wouldn’t risk them going anywhere close to Dartmoore.
Bridget worked more of her strange sort of magic while Guy mouldered below the keep. Messages were sent and arrangements made without him being any the wiser. The first he knew of it was when Willie and his nimble fingers appeared at the door of his cell to free him.
The guards snored softly, crumpled over their dice as Guy slid past. He could only ruminate on what Bridget might have given them to induce sleep. She would contrive to keep his escape secret for as long as possible, but there was no time to tarry.
Titan waited for him outside the keep where risk of discovery would be minimal. There would be no huge army riding under snapping pennants. The bastard deserved no open combat, no chance to meet him on the field of honour. Ewayne had picked from the men the toughest and most battle hardened warriors. This would be a brutal clash of two savage beasts, intent on rending each other asunder.
Helena
.
He couldn’t even picture her or he would lose what little control he possessed. She needed him to remain steady, to put his love and his fear for her into a place deep within and keep it locked away until he’d done what needed to be done. When he found her he would tell her he loved her. He should have done so before. Women liked that sort of thing and Guy prayed he would have a chance to do so.
Jesu
, if she were dead, he would sink his hands in Ranulf’s entrails and drain his life-blood.
“Guy?” Crispin touched his shoulder. “We are ready.”
Guy nodded, grateful Crispin rode with them. He mounted Titan. The men around him were solemn and silent in the predawn dark. They kept their thoughts to themselves, but their loyalty belonged to him.
They would give their all for him and his lady.
Chapter 28
“Surely you jest?” Helena prayed for Rosalind to laugh and tell her just that.
Instead, Rosalind grimaced and continued her quiet pacing about the tight confines of their prison.
In the full dark, all was quiet from the men outside. They must have fallen asleep. The two women had managed to feed the man in the bed and now he was awake and lucid, but still pitifully weak. He hadn’t told them his name; it didn’t seem to matter.
“Rosalind?”
“Nay.” She panted slowly through her teeth. “I wish it were a jest, Helena. The babe is coming.”
“But it cannot.” Tears of helplessness flooded Helena’s eyes. Rosalind couldn’t have her babe here, in this foul prison. She clenched both hands at her side as the enormity of the situation rose up to choke her. She wanted to rant and rail at the other woman and make it not so.
A moan escaped Rosalind’s throat and her hands gripped her distended belly as if to mock Helena’s fears.
“You must sit or lie down.” She gestured hopelessly around the filthy floor. “I will do what I can.”
Rosalind had been blowing hard through her teeth, making a strange ‘shushing’ noise with her breath. Now she said, “I have done this before.” She continued slowly dragging her cumbersome body a few steps forward at a time. “I will tell you what to do and you are going to have to see to it.” Her eyes locked with Helena’s.
“For this alone, I could kill Ranulf with my bare hands,” Helena ground out between her teeth, as Rosalind kept pacing. No matter how she longed to deny the truth, to pretend it was not real, Rosalind needed her.
Helena straightened her spine. “What should I do?”
“I will have to do most of it,” Rosalind responded with a wry laugh as she stopped again and made her ‘shushing’ noise. “I am walking because it speeds the birthing.”
Helena must have been wearing a horror-stricken expression, because Rosalind managed another soft laugh. “You are about to receive an education, Lady Nell. I will need somewhere to recline when it gets closer.” She motioned to the debris on the floor. “And some hot water. We will need cloths, too.” She turned a sharp eye on Helena. “There will be blood and you must be prepared for it and not faint.”
“I have never fainted,” Helena declared stoutly.
Yet
. She strode over to the door and pounded on it, unleashing all her apprehension against the solid wood. “Let me set my ‘swain’ to work.” She pounded harder.
The door flew open and her odiferous admirer appeared in the doorway, leering at her. “What now?”
“I will need water, lots of it, and some cloths.”
The man’s eyes raked her insolently, lingering on the swell of her breasts. “What will you do for ‘em?” He stretched out his filthy hand to touch her, but Helena held her ground. She refused to flinch beneath his crudeness.
“I am about to birth a babe,” she said with all the arrogance she could muster. Saying the words aloud made her want to panic anew.
His fingers stopped short of her bosom and he paled, just as Rosalind staggered into sight, hissing through her teeth, and bent over her belly as a birthing pain ripped through her. Confronted with such a womanly issue, he visibly shook.
“Unless you would like to do this yourself?” Helena arched a brow.
Moments later, she got her water and a ragged collection of hastily gathered cloaks. She picked through the bunch for the cleanest. The sound of voices broke the silence. Their captors were arguing amongst themselves.
“You will need some for the babe,” Rosalind instructed her between pains.
“My chainse,” Helena said. It would be cleaner than the cloaks provided by the men.
She got to work, sweeping an area clean before the fire. Selecting the filthiest cloak, she dropped to her knees and scrubbed the area as best she could. Ranulf’s men were still arguing as she dropped the muck into the fire. It smoked a bit then caught, small flames flickering back to life.
As the hours passed, Rosalind paced the small confines of the cottage, Helena at her side. They began counting steps between pains as a way to mark the progression of the birth. It seemed to be taking a very long time. The night wore on and still they walked.
Dawn broke, light seeping through the cracks in the wall and the holes in the roof. Rosalind’s steps grew heavier, her pauses more frequent. The morning heat became trapped in the airless room and clung to them. Sweat stuck to Helena’s hair and clothes and Rosalind’s gown was plastered to her body in places, her face streaked with dirt and perspiration.
Helena had ripped a small section of her bliaut and secured Rosalind’s hair away from her face in a thick tail down her back. Wet tendrils clung to her face and neck as she laboured and her breathing became more difficult.
They stopped more often and for longer periods. Rosalind remained silent despite her pain; her only reaction a tight grip on Helena’s hands, squeezing her fingers until they were bloodless. Helena endured the pinching ache, knowing what Rosalind suffered must be worse.
“How long does this take?” she pondered aloud.
The stranger on the bed spoke for the first time. “It is her first?”
In the midst of another pain, Rosalind groaned deep and guttural in the back of her throat. “This is my fourth,” she finally gasped after she regained her breath. “It will come fast.”
The stranger looked so appalled that first Rosalind and then Helena laughed. It brought a small moment of relief before Rosalind commenced her pacing once again.
One of their captors pushed food through the door at some point. Helena carried some over to the stranger, but Rosalind waved away any offer of nourishment. Helena couldn’t force a morsel past her throat. She tucked it neatly into the hearth. Later, when this was over, Rosalind would need the food to regain her strength.
A huge pain must have ripped through Rosalind, because it drew an agonized growl from her throat. Her weight dropped forward and Helena braced, lending support. It seemed to last forever before Rosalind’s breathing returned to normal. Her skirt was soaked; more water spilled into a puddle near her feet.
Sweet Lord
, let that not mean what she thought it meant.
“It is time,” Rosalind muttered. “I need to push.”
“You have not been pushing?” Helena yelped at her.
“Nay,” Rosalind grunted. Another pain seized her as Helena helped her to the ground. Rosalind jerked up, grabbing her raised knees. A scream tore through her clenched teeth.
What to do? She was helpless.
“Her skirts,” the stranger rasped. “You must free her from the skirts.”
Helena didn’t question him, desperately relieved that he seemed to have some knowledge. Gingerly she raised Rosalind’s skirts to her waist, angling her own body to provide as much modesty as possible. Rosalind didn’t seem to care as she released her knees and sank back again, breathing hard, her face pale and sweaty.
“Water,” the stranger barked.
“I am occupied,” Helena snarled at him.
“Not for me. Give her water, wet her lips.”
There was no cup or dipper. She ripped a clean section of her chainse and soaked it in water, then squeezed a dribble of water into Rosalind’s chapped, dry lips. Rosalind’s tongue came out and lapped up the water eagerly. Helena berated herself for not thinking of water sooner.